I was born and raised in a small northern Montana town, where our version of gangs was 4H.  My grandparents had a ranch with horses and cows, and had an annual gathering with all of my aunts and uncles to brand the new calves that were born over the month prior.  It was at one of these gatherings that I had my first experience riding atop a horse by myself.  He was a big horse with an original name: Black.  Grandpa put me on Black and led me around the house.  At that point I was hooked.

During these branding get-togethers, someone would rope a calf around its legs to take it down.  The rope was held taut, while I was taught to sit on the neck while my dad would cut them of their oysters and toss them in a bowl for a feast later on in the day.  After that, he would cut the tip of their ear indicating that they had been through the cutting process already.  While the cutting process was underway, someone would grab a branding iron and all you would see is smoke and flame coming from the rear hip of the calf.  It would scream and squirm under my weight and I would cover my face; the odor of burning fur wasn't a fragrance I preferred.

Living in coastal Georgia, I don’t get the daily opportunity to take in the smell of fresh horse or cow manure.  To be honest, I miss having the poo on my boots.  For me, it’s a symbol that represents the life you live; that you work hard every day for what you have and to sustain the life you love.

My passion is to photograph.  I love spending time with horses and the ranchers that love them too.  With my photos, I create stories that people can have for the rest of their lives; that they can share with the generations to come.